GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 
37 
BEAUTY AND FRAGRANCE OF FLOWERS. 
THOMSON. 
But, who can paint 
Like nature? — Can imagination boast, 
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? 
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, 
And lose them in each other, as appears 
In ev’ry bud that blows? 
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, 
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, 
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace: 
Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first; 
The daisy, primrose, violet, darkly blue, 
And polyanthus of unnumber’d dyes; 
The yellow wall-flower, stain’d with iron brown; 
And lavish stock, that scents the garden round: 
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, 
Anemones, auriculas, enrich’d 
With shining meal o’er all their velvet leaves; 
And full ranunculus of glowing red. 
Then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays 
Her idle freaks, from family diffused 
To family, as flies the father-dust, 
The varied colours run, and while they break 
On the charm’d eye, the exulting florist marks. 
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. 
No gradual bloom is wanting, from the bud 
First-born of spring, to summer’s musky tribes; 
